The sun dipped lower, turning the horizon into waves of molten gold as Troady's group entered Theryz's desolate outskirts. The wind carried faint voices — whispers that didn't belong to the living. Each gust seemed to murmur warnings from the sand itself.
Lyra's eyes darted around nervously. "These mirages… they're not illusions," she muttered. "They have mana traces."
Amylo's tone was grim. "Stabilized mirages — solid constructs of decayed leyline energy. That's a deliberate creation, not natural. Whoever's behind this isn't just powerful, they're draining the land."
Troady clenched his jaw. "So this General Lukes really is here."
Amylo froze. "You've heard that name?"
"Yeah," Troady said. "A few villagers whispered it before slamming their doors. Said he's the 'voice of the sands.' Drains life just by being near it."
Amylo's eyes darkened. "Lukes used to be one of the Syndicate's key tacticians. He specializes in soul resonance — turning mana fields into sentient illusions. If Theryz is collapsing, it's because Lukes is feeding on it."
They pressed deeper into the dead town. Houses stood half-buried in dunes, the last few villagers huddling behind cracked shutters. When they passed, children made protective signs in the air — and one elderly woman spat near Amylo's feet.
"Cursed one," she hissed. "You brought the desert's wrath."
Amylo's hand twitched, but Troady gently stopped him. "Ignore her," he murmured.
Inside the only standing tavern, a trembling innkeeper warned them in a whisper:
"Don't stay long, travelers. The sands talk now. First you hear voices, then you see things you shouldn't. Then you vanish. It's General Lukes' curse."
Amylo's expression hardened. "Which direction?"
"East ridge," the man whispered. "The old temple ruins. The ground screams there."
Lyra turned to Troady. "The temple's near the leyline nexus. If Lukes is corrupting it, we'll lose this whole region."
Troady's eyes narrowed. "Then that's where we go."
---
That night, they made camp on the outskirts. The stars above were dim — swallowed by faint mana mist. Amylo sat apart, staring into the dunes, his mind elsewhere.
Troady joined him quietly. "You knew Lukes personally, didn't you?"
Amylo hesitated. "He was my superior once. Cold, calculating… but brilliant. He believed emotion was the flaw in all creation. Said, 'If we remove feeling, mana flows pure.' He used to say that right before wiping villages off the map."
Lyra approached, overhearing. "So we're not just fighting corruption — we're fighting ideology."
Amylo smirked bitterly. "Call it what you want. To him, this desert is a lab experiment."
Before they could continue, the air suddenly vibrated. The sand began to rise, forming shapes — first blurry silhouettes, then full figures made of dust and memory. One of them spoke in a warped, layered tone:
"Amylo… you still breathe? Lukes expected better."
The group leapt up. Lyra raised her staff, forming a barrier as Troady unsheathed his blade.
Amylo's eyes glowed faintly red. "That's one of his projections — a sand echo. Lukes is watching us."
The mirage lunged, dozens of arms swirling like storm tendrils. Troady slashed through it, but every cut dissolved and reformed instantly.
"They're not physical!" he shouted.
Amylo knelt, carving glowing runes into the sand. "You can't kill them — but you can cancel them!"
He slammed his palm down. The sigils flared, freezing the mirages mid-air. "Now, strike the core pattern!"
Lyra's staff unleashed a burst of light. Troady swung his sword through the glowing center — and the entire formation shattered into dust.
When the silence settled, only the whispering wind remained.
Lyra exhaled shakily. "That… that was Lukes' doing?"
Amylo nodded grimly. "He was testing us. That wasn't even him — just his echo. But the mana signature…" He looked toward the eastern horizon, where red lightning flickered faintly over the dunes. "That's definitely him."
Troady tightened his grip on his blade. "Then he knows we're coming."
Amylo gave a faint, dry laugh. "Good. Let him. The Syndicate thinks I'm still running."
Troady turned toward him. "Not anymore."
Amylo paused — then, for the first time in days, smiled faintly. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
Troady smirked. "Neither do you."
They broke camp at dawn. As the first light touched the dunes, the sands themselves whispered once more — this time clearer, almost reverent:
"The lost shall rise… and Lukes shall fall beneath the light."
Amylo glanced at Troady, voice low. "You hear that?"
Troady nodded, eyes fixed on the blood-red horizon. "Yeah. The desert's waiting."
And together, they marched toward the East Ridge — where the shadow of General Lukes awaited them.
To be Continued...
Written By:-Punit Israni
Enhanced By:-Chatgpt